


For a Bucketful of KFC

by OakwoodOuroboros



Category: South Park
Genre: Gamesphere, Gen, Homophobia, M/M, No Smut, Physical Abuse, Slavery, beatings, guys! come on! do you really think I'll ever write that kind of stuff, humor remember, tags sound heavy but aren't really, tried to copy the show's absurd humor (unsuccessfully), wait a sec, weird maybe-romance, you know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-10-08 20:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10395726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OakwoodOuroboros/pseuds/OakwoodOuroboros
Summary: It just so happened to be that they weren’t joking. It was quite sad actually, to see him go that way, but people had witnessed so many other similar things that they quickly forgot all about the event. He only had one thing to keep him going, and that was the vague hope that maybe he would get to see his face again one day.An AU of sorts.





	1. Prolog

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was never supposed to turn out this long. It turned into my usual sweet-and-sour crack fic though, so it shouldn’t be too bad. Mainly based on the episodes Gnomes, Tweek X Craig and Cash for Gold, as well as some random other cameos I guess. This is my first South Park fic, so please don’t kill me too dead for it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prolog.

"ARGGGGHHHH!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenny dies twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This story pictures slavery in a typically South Park-ish fashion, that is with sarcasm and absurd humor. I just want to make it clear that I don't support the concept and that all stereotypical representations are meant to mock with no malicious intent. Also, if you were looking for a parody of "A Fistful of Dollars", you're knocking on the wrong door. My name isn't Comedy Central, so it's very unlikely that I own South Park.

The day was a fine one, for South Park anyway. The birds were singing and the grass was green (under the three feet of snow, that is), and the boys were spending a relatively normal day eating some nondescript fatty chicken by-product, walking back from the park after playing make-believe followed by a dubiously fair game of basketball (as usual, Cartman decided to change some of the rules halfway-through, leading to general outrage and a bunch of insults directed to our favorite ginger Jersey, which, as you will see, led to the conversation that we are now going to take a little peak on:

"...and that's why I can assure you guys that Kahl is Scott Malkinson's secret Siamese twin."

"That's bullcrap, dude."

"CARTMAN! This is the LAST straw! I'm Jewish, Jersey, and whatever else you wish to call me that doesn't necessarily start with a 'J'; fine, I know that, and I admit it's true. But you legitimately CAN'T rip on me for something that I am not! You've gone way too far this time, Fatass!"

"Wou we whet wim wip wiss wuts waut?" ("Should we let him rip his guts out?", courtesy of MumbletradsTM)

"Nah, he's the one holding the chicken right now, I don't want it to fall on the floor and get all dirty.").

They bickered amicably for quite a while, Kyle having to be held back a few times by a blasé Stan and seriously disinterested Kenny, when suddenly a cry of pure terror cut through the air, making the bluebirds twitter and flee the place in a panic and the dogs drag their unfortunately weaker owners through the half-melted slush of snow that they would soon discover to be full of various rodent droppings and other AIDS-infested glories from last summer. The boys looked up for a second, but only one out of the four of them remained concerned by the interruption for more than an instant.

"Dude, wasn't that Tweek?" asked Stan, his grip relaxing for a fateful second on his best bud's sleeve, giving him the opportunity he needed to soundly try and rip their fatter friend's throat out.

By some strange coincidence, Kenny managed to find himself in the line of fire and died in the process, but his corpse was only a source of distress to his companions for a few seconds before his curse kicked in and they turned back to the repeated yelling coming from Tweak Bros. Coffee shop.

"He must be seriously freaking out, that place is like, miles away."

"You think we should go and help out?" Kyle asked Stan, unsure whether he was actually bothered to go that far out. They were planning on going home and playing on the Gamesphere late enough to warrant a sleepover, not stuffing their noses into something that would probably turn into some daft adventure at some point or another.

"Hell no, no way I'm walking that far to help the spaz out, besides, Scott Malkinson Junior might faint on his way there from diabetes. No way I'm carrying the Jew's ass around, not even for a bucket of KFC."

As it turned out, Cartman did gain a bucket of skinless KFC for his efforts at being an asshole, Kyle too enraged for words pulling Stan over to the shitty coffee house just for the pure pleasure of defying Cartman and getting out of hearing range of his insults. As it turns out, the high-pitched screaming fit was not due to the fact that the place had run out of coffee (or meth, for that matter, despite later claims), but for a more distressingly rational reason to the common man.

Tweek was collapsed on the sidewalk in a sobbing heap, his trembling so intense that it probably registered on the Richter scale, whilst his ever-smiling parents stood over him.

"I'm sorry honey, there just isn't any other way we can keep the business on the road."

"Like the falcon on its unknowing prey, the police have cracked down on the Tweak Bros. Secret Recipe and have declared it 'illegal' and 'unfit for human consumption'. Fortunately, I managed to frame my Colombian coffee bean provider for the drug charges, but it still means that without the one thing that makes Tweak's coffee the perfect morning wake-up call for the sleepy residents of South Park, the business is bound to go under as quickly as a sardine when confronted to the cruel fisherman's harpoon. They really have my balls in a fruit-blender."

"BUT WHY? WHY? I'M YOUR SON, WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME? ACK!… PRESSURE!"

Tweek's voice was too calm, if the screeching could be called calm at all, that is. What was meant by that was that his speech wasn't as fast-paced as it usually was, and from what the boys could see from where they were standing twenty feet away, he was crying. That… wasn't supposed to be. Only Clyde, Butters and Cartman cried on a regular basis. Something was definitely wrong.

"Oh, well, now that we're never going to see you again, I guess we can tell you. What do you think, honey?"

"Why not? Tweek, put your little spaz, caffeinated brain to work for once, and answer us honestly: do you really think you look anything like us? Do you think that we would inflict on our biological son, like the pure-white, naive lab rat that you are, the horrors of being a meth and caffeine addict from such a young age?"

"What your father means by that is that you're adopted, baby, and that we never really cared for you all that much. As long as we didn't have child services on our back, we could get away with just about anything, and that's why we've come to this decision today."

"SELLING ME INTO SLAVERY?!"

Stan stood there, mouth wide open, floored by the revelations that he had just witnessed. He glanced to his right, expecting Kyle to have had the same reaction as him, but only found a dull look there.

"Dude!" he said reproachfully, motioning to the scene that was taking place just before their eyes. "What the f..."

"I'm not that surprised, really. Were you the only one to not see how messed up this kid was? And he's like, not at all like his parents. Even your dad managed to spot that one, and I have to say, it's difficult to be any less discerning than him," he replied to the look, tagging on a "No offense" to the unbelieving and maybe slightly mad stare he got back. Stan belatedly closed his mouth, looked back over at the drama taking place just down the street, and made his mind up.

"Right, I'm phoning Craig."

"Don't! Dude, that'll just end in a bloodbath, and you know it. Seriously, someone's gonna die if you do that."

"Whya woodds!" ("Hiya dudes!" courtesy of MumbletradsTM)

"Oh, hi Kenny. Stan, this is mad man! This sort of thing happens all the time, and if you do anything about it and don't just ignore it, you know that it's gonna escalate into something huge and totally out of proportion."

"I. Don't. Fucking. Care. Craig has brawn and can get Tweek out of this, and from what I've just heard, his parents are serious this time over." He scrolled through his phone contacts, finding the one named "The Bird" with a tit as a contact picture (fitting) and tapping the dial button.

"But that's the thing! Craig's crazy protective, I'm serious when I say that he'll kill someone."

"Kyle, I think that there's something that you don't quite understand. To give you an idea, I wouldn't even wish slavery on Cartman. _Cartman_ , for God's sake. So please, just shut up for once and let me do my thing."

He brought the phone up to his ear just in time for the last second of dial tone before it was picked up, opening onto crackling as someone breathed heavily down the receiver.

"Craig, whatever you're doing, get your ass over here. Tweek's in trouble."

"Fat… *crackles* lot of good you are. Look up."

Stan did, and to his surprise, saw a ball of blue anger streaking down from the opposite end of the street. Craig had obviously also been alerted by the blond's piercing cries, and had been running for quite a while to get to their source. Stan hung up and observed the scene unfolding beneath them, Kyle stopping as well to enjoy what was promising to be one of the most realistic renditions of one of the ancient roman's christian executions there was around.

And indeed, the "lion" pounced, eyes filled with desperation and rage, but that wasn't counting on the van that came hurtling down the street. It was missing its door on the passenger side, and a hook was sticking out of it instead. As quick as a flash, it skidded up the road, and just at the instant where the nervous blond's and the stoic black-haired boy's index finger's came in contact, the instant where both their pairs of desperate love-struck eyes met and they exchanged a visible spark, the hook caught Tweak's collar and pulled him harshly up and off the pavement, brusquely enough to make him squeak. The instant later, the van was gone and Kenny was dead again, squished flat on the road.

The boys saw Craig sink to his knees, his eyes more empty than they had ever seen them, and he stayed there, silent tears running down his cheeks. His hands convulsed, grasped at something that wasn't there, the one thing that meant anything to him in this life gone.

Tweek's parents turned around and started chatting in their usual soft tones as they made their way back to the shop as if nothing had happened. Kyle nudged Stan, who snapped out of his reverie.

"Oh, sorry. Oh my God, they killed Kenny."

"You bastards. Right, let's go play Gamesphere."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly felt like the story should stop just here, the ending is so perfect :D
> 
> But... depending on feedback, I may or may not publish the rest of what I've written. I'll just put this out as a taster for now, see how it fares.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Abuse, homophobia and references to depression and suicide

Tweek's first reaction, once his feet stood on relatively solid ground, was to freak out. Fortunately, that torture didn't last too long, as the people who had kidnapped him quickly got angry and knocked him out, so that the next thing that he saw once he woke up was a blank wall with a crack zigzagging up the cheap paint. Oh, and for some reason, a yellowing 'I am Legend' poster hastily slapped on with sellotape.

It was weird, waking up so slowly and not being able to just grab a mug of spiked brew to finish the job. Actually, he was already starting to feel the first symptoms of withdrawal, that may or may not have been associated with the fact that he probably had concussion from being knocked out with an aluminum bat, and just general emotional distress. All in all, he felt like absolute shit.

He started to tremble, gently at first, then more and more violently as he got to his senses. He had been kidnapped, and his parents weren't really his parents, and oh God with the luck he had he was going to be sold to some perv. He just knew it. And Craig wasn't there anymore to protect him.

"NYAHHHRGH!"

Despite the gag, his cry sounded loud and clear throughout the entire building. Immediately, a man stormed into the room, his face obscured by some black flower-patterned Gothic stocking (this man turned out to be Henrietta Biggle's father, not that Tweek would ever know this, but it's a fun fact for the reader anyway).

"Kid, what the..."

He was interrupted by yet another screech, that he silenced by punching the kid in the face. It was more of an instinctive reaction rather than a malicious one, but it had the wanted effect anyhow: Tweek shut up immediately.

"Kid," he said, now making a bad impression of the Batman voice to disguise his true identity. "I don't want to hurt you, and you don't want to be hurt, so let's make a deal and say that you'll be cool and calm, and I'll make sure you don't get any more bruises."

Tweek haltingly nodded, shocked and definitely not wanting to be hit again. His so-called parents had never raised a hand on him before, the only real physical pain he had ever encountered being when he fought occasionally at school, and even then he at least had the option of defending himself. This was different. This was serious.

The man checked the ropes and chains binding the boy to the chair that they had set up facing the wall, then turned to leave. Before he got to the door, however, he was stopped by a loud grunt from the boy. He turned back, thinking that maybe he wanted to pee (cleaning up piss was definitely _not_ what he wanted to spend his Friday night doing, thank you very much), but when he got close enough to discern what the boy was saying, he could only hear one tearful word being repeated over and over, chocked on through snot, other mucus and the gag, but still distinguishable:

"Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig..."

The man thought of his little boy, Bradley, back at home, and for the first time wondered what he would have done if he were in the place of the newest piece of merchandise the company had acquired. This thought only lasted a second though, the only similarities that he could find between them being their age and the fact that they were blond.

"Nah, Bradley's no faggot," he thought.

This was to be proven wrong years later, when he would find his adopted super-son dating some Korean Pop singer, and that he would be thrown back to the thoughts he had that day when he had made the comparison with Tweek Tweak, which would make him realize all the wrong he'd done working in South Park's criminal underbelly, leading him to a long bout of depression, before finally driving him to suicide.

For now though, appeased by his false certainties and blissfully unaware of the fate his creators had in store for him, he whistled happily while walking down the hallway, on his way to get a bucket of KFC all to himself for lunch.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: references to potential physical and sexual abuse

He fell asleep at one point, not that he knew when of course, only having the beating of his heart throb dully through his damaged cheekbone and head to keep him aware of the passing of time. Thoughts of the current situation were downright terrifying, but the lack of his normal meth-and-caffeine mix to keep him awake meant that his brain was getting sluggish very quickly. Not only that, but the day had been an exhausting one, and his body decided against his better judgment to shut down for a few hours. He was only nine years old, after all.

When he did wake up, however, he found himself in a panic that he forced himself to contain for fear of being beaten black and blue. His shivering increased, but he didn’t even squeak, interiorising everything until he managed to find his center.

He did so with great difficulty, but when he did, he let out the first sound he had produced in a while, since the chanting of his classmate’s name: a sigh of relief.

Tweek wasn’t sure when Craig had first become part of his secret garden, that his voice as the voice of reason had replaced his previous one. Maybe the other had been fired when he had first started thinking about suicide or something. All he knew was that he was very discrete, but his presence was one of the more calming ones nonetheless. He usually just stood there, unmoving, a confident, and sometimes an adviser. This was the only place he could feel safe, that he could think through serious things without freaking out and feeling compelled to pull his hair out. It was a shame that the secret place was so difficult to access, the only ways being through intense Buddhist meditation, eating way too many nachos, or, like in this case, extreme pressures. 

Still, now he was here, and he could already feel his fried nerves being soothed by a kind, velvet hand, like Tweak Bros. coffee on a misty Monday morning. 

The emergence of one of his father’s metaphors seriously rocked the boat he had made for himself, having to hold on tight so as not to fall into the turbulent sea of his mind once and again (and to not be sick. His stomach had never been one of the strongest) and drown under the strong waves of his psyche. He did manage to get himself back under control after he pictured Craig’s stoic face again, but it was still with great difficulty that he climbed back through the passage under the bush to his little garden of philosophy. 

“I don’t think you’re ready to think about them yet,” said the image of Craig, his nasally monotone coming from behind him like he imagined a psychotherapist's doing. Not that he had ever been to meet one, it’s just what he had managed to grasp from films and such. “Just, like, try to see how you can settle in the future. Don’t dwell on the past, it can only fuck with you.”

“I think that in this case, thinking about the future will fuck with me just as badly as thinking about the past,” he replied, his voice staying calm and level. It never rose above a whisper here.

“Myeah, you’re really in deep shit this time over, I have to say, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t go over your options.”

“Yeah, top priority is to get away from the pervs, if that can be helped at all, that is,” Tweek said with a bittersweet laugh that frightened a nearby deer away. Huh, there went his feminine side.

“Well, there must be a way. Cover up like a Muslim chick? Pray? Look like a freak? Oh, wait...”

They both cackled. This was an added bonus to having Craig around rather than his usual inner voice. He didn’t mind telling the honest truth, and didn’t scoot around details either. 

“Right, there’s that, but I’m not even sure how they’re going to go about getting rid of me. Maybe it’ll be like some sort of sale with bids?… What’s that called again?…”

“Dunno,” admitted Craig. “With the hammer and stuff. I get ya. Besides, the pressure will probably be way too much for you in that case. I guess that you just have to fall back on my previous suggestions.”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Tweek, a little disappointed.

“Or...” 

Tweek looked up at him, interest peaking at his subconsciousness's possible idea.

“You can try escaping.”

“WHAT?” Tweek shouted, and again he had to use all his strength to not be propelled back into the gloomy, stressful reality. “Sorry. I mean, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Because you’re scared shitless of being beaten up. Okay, dude, listen, I know you’re not in the best of states right now, but I think you should give it a shot if you’re given a window of opportunity to do so. If I were you, which I am, I’d give it a go. I prefer having a 10 percent chance of escaping with a bump on my head and a permanent emotional scar rather than a near hundred percent chance of having to literally lick someone else’s balls for the rest of my living years.”

“I guess you’re right,” Tweek replied with a sigh. “Can’t guarantee that I’ll have the nerves to do it though. I’ll have to play it by ear.”

“You do like to live dangerously, don’t you? Playing it by ear can mean mayhem and possible death for an inhabitant of South Park,” Craig smirked playfully.

“Huh. Well, I just hope that I’ll be the lucky one for once.”

“There you go, now go and rely on your Roman Catholic upbringing to get you out of this. Scram. I’ve got important dream-crafting to do.”

“Okay, thanks again Craig!”

“Yeah, whatever. Careful when you get out of meditation, you’ll want to pee.”

Immediately, Tweek was sent back into the real world, and indeed felt a tightness in his lower gut, adding onto all his other pains and sores. He trembled, then started whimpering softly. This was going to be a long, long wait.


	5. Chapter 5

The man with the flower stockings came back before he had to soil his pants in order to relieve himself. He also brought a plate of plain white, flat bread covered in some sort of cheap pasta sauce, to Tweek’s great distress. What if it was drugged? And that jug of water, what if it contained some kind of poison to get rid of him discreetly and without bloodshed?

His tics, verbal as well as physical, started acting up, not that they had a lot of space to do so with him being bound to a chair and all. The man had to undo a few of his ties to let him pee into a bucket that he brought around from somewhere in the room that wasn’t in Tweek’s limited line of sight. His business done, he attached him back to the chair again, pulling the gag off once he was finished. 

“GAH! CAN’T STAND THE…” 

A backhand silenced him. Henrietta’s father had had a long day counting out dimes for the local Icelandic mafia and was definitely not in the mood to deal with a whinny brat. However, he was still careful when he spoon-fed the kid, making sure that he swallowed everything and didn’t try and starve himself to death. Dead livestock wasn’t good, and he would definitely get slapped on the wrists if he let the kid die like an unattended goldfish, no matter how low a price he was being sold for.

“Oh, by the way, you’ve been sold, kid.”

Tweek chocked on the mouthful he was chewing on, and got slapped roughly on the back to help him dislodge the food blocking his air off. 

“Argh! S-sorry...” he said, lowering his head fearfully. 

“Yeah, someone coughed up fifty bucks and a bucket of KFC for you, and all the boss had to tell him was that you’re white and blond. Quite a story, hey?”

Tweek remained silent, preferring not to let his wounded pride show. Fifty bucks and a few bits of deep-fried chicken. Even his self-esteem wasn’t that low. He trembled a little more violently though, hearing the specifics of the reasons for which he was now property. That sounded an awful lot like a type to someone. Like a kink or something.

“I-is this guy...”

“Definitely a gay perv, yes,” the man answered immediately, shoving the gag back into the boy’s mouth as he did so. “Shouldn’t be too bad for you though, not much of a change.”

Tweak may have been a pushover at times, scared and stressed out of his mind and definitely awful when it came to keeping friends around (he remembered when Kenny had come back, the boys had dressed up in suits and fired him soundly with the excuse that he was ‘lame’ now that their original quatuor was back together. It still stung), but there were limits to his patience.

“Euhm nuh guh!” (“I’m not gay!” courtesy of MumbletradsTM) he shouted, being difficult and throwing his head from side to side so that the man couldn’t attach the piece of cloth correctly. He wiggled his wrists and legs around, to test the strength of the knots, and if possible to weaken them as well.

All he got for his efforts was another smack that sent his ear ringing, as well as a kick to the shins to stop his wriggling definitely. The man finished his job off quickly while the boy was still stunned then left, wiping blood fearfully on his dark trousers so that his boss didn’t see it. He wasn’t supposed to break skin, and he did hope that what he had done was not too visible, like a split lip or something. Still, the kid would be gone this evening, and he wouldn’t have to deal with him ever again. 

Tweek found himself dropping off soon, the drugs that he so feared taking effect and throwing him into a deep, troubled sleep.


End file.
